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Spoil by Toujours Padfoot
Chapter 1 : Pulp, Pulse, Pull
 
Rating: MatureChapter Reviews: 5


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My spirit is idle water. I watch you drop your finger to it, making it ripple, and suddenly I am alive again.

I awaken at your touch. I been awake for years and years. I have never slept.

The branches scratch at my arms, my legs, as I follow you through the wilderness under twenty shimmering moons, reflecting like the brilliant lens of a kaleidoscope. Soft clouds descend slowly over the tortured hills, wrapping around our bodies the same way my hands once intertwined with yours, smothering us with their glaring purple irises. When we walk out of them we are coming out of water, emerging with a drip, drop, drip. Your soul drips over my arms, pleading voice pealing lightly on my eyelids.You declare your refusal to love me in many languages, raising my goosebumps into Braille and manipulating my fingers to make signs.

I refuse to listen. I am too busy hearing you sing to feel you molding me, burning me with hot coals.

{My heart molds into a bell. You ring it with teases, taunts.}

My love is many petals opening and yours is the reverse; you close against me, unwilling to share your love unless I have deserved it, will struggle for it. The dirt works itself out of the ground, separating from itself, and drags you underneath. You thread through rivers like a fallen log, rotted on the inside. Every wave you spear is a facet of my heart, waiting to burst.

I crouch at the river where my soul splits in half, pouring into the caps you break. They are lit by the moon, by my love, but you coldly wash over me and beyond. Follow me, you say. {But of course I will follow you. I will follow you to the ends of the earth.} I pluck a cherry blossom and paint my lips with it, making them pink as you like them to be, although they will never be soft again without your fingers skimming across. Making me ripple like idle pools of water. {Imagery}

{Seaweed. Freshwater pearls. A garden of luminous fauna.}

Our drip, drop, drip persists in echoing clangs, slithering inside my eardrums to nest in my skull. I see you in full-fledged color – vibrant, living – and you see me only in black and white, in dull flavors of yesterday. Is this why you run from me?

I stumble on my path, trying to reach you, and take fistfuls of leaves in my hands. I crush them, sprinkle them into the wind to guide your love back to me. I try to pull your essence right out of you from between your teeth, to draw it to my own mouth and swallow slowly, savoring. I think you would taste like candlelight, like a prince and the clouds and the whales you used to draw in the dirt with a stick. Prince of whales.

In my mind’s eye I take a crayon and etch an ‘X’ over you, my treasure. {I will never stop wanting you, struggling to deserve you.} Hot, hot Amazon.

Your back is to me, finally immobile. You’ve stopped running and now your form is flooded with fog and dirt and leaves chewed by the air, encircling you in a cyclone of what I want, what I’ve always wanted. The mud climbs your trousers, sampling your skin. You feel the coolness of it, and haven’t realized yet that it’s actually me. Is it hitting you yet that you cannot escape?

What would my dull flavors of yesterday taste like, I wonder? {Spill your color over me.} White lightning, veins on fire. You are electric, fiberglass pricking the pads of my fingers. Apoplectic blush stains my shaking knees, hinting at my fate. My soul is hooked in yours. The dice are statues. They shall not roll again. {Symbolism}

You spit me out like coffee grinds, continuing to run. I shout for you, arms waving, not understanding. The river leaps from its bank and hurls me inside it to its heart, limbs of frigid water tightly encasing my chest. I struggle to breathe as it breathes back into me, planting kisses of death right over my mouth where I’m struggling to inhale oxygen. You keep running. I can see your progress as my eyes tunnel, my smirk slashing across your back, and know you will not get far.

I am everywhere, in the air. I am following you. I want to watch you ignite.

You shrink smaller and smaller until you’re racing between mushrooms, twenty paces over the flat surface of a tree stump. I close in on you with feathered wings, sharp beak, clawed feet. I lick my honey lips and blow, sending gusts of myself into your subconscious to force you to remember. I will grate against you like deer antlers against tree bark in the dead of winter. I will push at you until you recoil; until you’re all the way flat. Rub away until you’re hollow.

Your fear smells like pine and it reminds me of home, of Christmas at Hogwarts. Our crisscrossed childhood is so far away, isn’t it? But here you are, so very small again. I could blot you out with one breath. One exhale and your spark is extinguished like a sandcastle at high tide. Tulips. The tulips spread around us in a quilt rippling with the dawning tide. It dances red, flowing from a pitcher in my hands. The cracked clay pitcher screams, whistles like a train. It is being unwillingly drained. A horse whinnies in the distance, a brouhaha in the misty morning march.

Hello, breakfast. {Ambiguity}

And suddenly you are in my snowflake arms, my hair, your arms and legs tangling somewhere in my stomach. I have swallowed you but you are still running, endlessly running. The blood of the skies runs until they’re only clear water, drips of drops of drips. I scoop memories into my palms and bathe us both in redemption, sweet nectar dizzy in the late night, early morning. I have followed you and called for you, but you will endlessly run from me, black strokes over green over blue over beige. {Over dreams, over purple irises, over crumbled leaves.}

You cannot attain a shadow. A sword forged in hot coals turns toward the light, waiting. It yearns to be used against you.

I cry out to the madness, to the blackness. I swipe at the upside-down sky with clawed wings and feathered feet. You melt like sugar in my mouth as your footprints pant across the mud, sink into grass and weeds taller than the pines of my memory. You will be forever alive there, alone, forever fleeing. {Smoke, mirrors.} I bend over backwards in my memories and pinch out your flame, smoke singing to stay afloat in my ribs. If I cannot keep you, I will consume you. I will swim in your freedom, spoiling it with malice.

I will never be content without your contention. {Spill, gush, froth, flow.} Give me permission to give you up. Give in.

My teeth snap at you, barely missing. I think I hear a bark of your laughter. I spin in midair and become the wind weaving through your hair, through your dirt-cracked hands. I will fly into your heart and turn it to stone. If you will not beat for me, you will beat for no one.

{You told me to follow you, did you not?} Butterfly wings carress your cuticles, wait for you to croon in fluent Bulgarian. Don't they know that those songs are dead? They died long before they happened, in the past's future and the present's yesterday. They are forgotten, drifting in a cotton breeze while caves whisper and crows sigh.

Your lion’s smile, your raven hair, your serpentine side-winding. Sand rockets between us like ocean spray, burning my nose and throat like orange juice. I want all of it for myself. You cannot hide from me. {Mermaids with scales of liquid nitrogen.} There is no flag you plant triumphantly in the soft soil that I cannot uproot, cannot take for my own.

You turn to granules of sand, pulp of orange juice still stinging the underside of your tongue. I lash against the deceiving pulp and spit you out. You dive into the river in a swift recoil and my love follows yours, unearned and undeserved. I will never be idle again. I will swim in your freedom: black death over run-red tulips, over blue silence, over candyfloss-pink lips.

There is a blaze. {You ignite.}

 








This one-shot is a rambling stream of nonsense punctuated by aesthetically pleasing language. I have no idea what it's supposed to mean and won't pretend otherwise. Hope you enjoyed!




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